words flow like water,
yours are a river,
mine are but a runnel.
i move my lips but what comes out doesn’t makes any sense.
yours are a river
that nourishes the forest,
they pass through me washing away the worries, the pain.
mine are but a runnel
that gets in a crack,
and when my words fall out cold as ice, it freezes over.
and breaks, deepens the crack.
they just destroy.
everything and everyone around me.
yours are like a river
you seem unaware of your stream; so full of life, so full of joy.
your crystal waters brings peace.
but you can’t see it.
and when i’m stagnant, you’re there,
and there’s always a way out.
before the fishes die. before i dry. before i destroy
you breathe for me. you rain. you create.
what would i do without my muse?
what would you do without your reaper?
we create a perfect, messed up cycle.
and that’s what we’re made of, words.
to help each other.
and words flow just like water,
yours like a river,
mine like a runnel.
The world isn’t dark.
The world is wide, alive, cruel and real.
It’s everything standing between you and your dreams. It is your dreams.
And those dreams are about yourself merging with it, losing notion of where your skin ends and where the wild begins; opening your eyes until they’ve been burnt with the mist of a new day. Missing the tune of your voice screaming along with the timeless wind.
It’s the notes of hurricanes spinning against clockwork lives, waking up from our devouring existences plagued with smog and grey.
You can invent melodies and paint memories of dreamt escapades, but you can’t deny your needs. The tucking necessity of light, sheere pleasure and freedom. Outside. And you can’t deny yourself. No matter how hard you fight the tide, as long as fantasies of open gardens dance behind your eyelids, you will want to leave.
The worlds isn’t dark.
La sangre no brota.— No en la cantidad suficiente, al menos.
Pequeñas pizcas carmesí florecen en su muñeca. Pero ya no es sangre, ya no es su piel. El líquido, ese color, es solo un efecto secundario del dolor; otra se las casualidades de la guerra contra sí misma.
Ahora entiende mejor, pasando la hoja como un pincel, la necesidad de crear una obra maestra. Una danza de filos, tanspirando miedo. La espada y la pluma adornadas ambas con perlas cobrizas.
Hasta que algo dentro se termina de desenredar, dando rienda suelta a la realización. Poco a poco, el silencio.
Algodón tiñiéndose de rosa y el ardor del agua son la única salida. Una manga cubriendo el lienzo separa el ritual del resto de la vida. En la que hay que respirar y esconder, parpadear y seguir. Ignorante de las manchas que no deben formarse dentro de la ropa, de lo que no se debe pensar ni desear, de aquello que no se debe sentir.
Y, al final, la soledad. La culpa y la necesidad de recomenzar. Algunas veces, sostenida por la espera del descanso, del abrazo de esas garras que no juzgarán. Otras, sucumbiendo al vencimiento, a la espera de la primera ola que intente llevarla a la orilla, cuando acepta la tormenta y la lleva la calma, la resignación.
Pero, sobre todo, la incomodidad personal del encierro verbal; y una sonrisa, como un lamento.
A pit opens up in the bottom of your stomach, suddenly draining the smile you’ve been holding.
Why, why such feeling? Isn’t this everything you wished for? Everything you could never give to her, the presense and love? This pathetic crush of yours was never going to lead anywhere.
Think, think again, get rational and believe in it for once. Swallow the bile that rises from the back of your throat and shut up.
But then, why does it still feel so empty?
A shaken breath wins you over as you try to stare fixedly at the screen, hands invisibly shaking.
Oh, come on. You should’ve been waiting for this. It’s not even that serious, is it? You can move on, you need to move on; even when there’s nothing to move on from.
And then you just close the tab.
“You could be happy
I hope you are
You made me happier
Than I’d been by far”
My most sincere regrads, my friend.
Life has so much more to offer than what you see day by day.
But dig in the deepest of your subconscious, find those memories that make you smile still. Repeat them in your mind untill they’re burned on the back of your eyelids, until you’re convinced. And cling to them, like a shipwreked does to the last wooden board. Because that’s what you are after all, isn’t it? A survivor, a fighter. Beyond what you may allow yourself to accept, you defy the weather each day, doing your best to keep crawling even in the steepest routes.
And yet you do it, every day.
She passed by a house with front yard and had to remind herselt to keep walking. Her sight was suddenly blurred with a waterfall of memories. Memories of a summer afternoon at someone’s garden. A relative’s, it must’ve been. The embracing smell of jasmine and orchids filling the air; and bright green grass newly cut. And she was lost in the feeling of freshness that could keep a drink cold. Of ringing laughter, like Christmass bells out of season.
She got to the corner and stopped dead as she heard the breaks of a car screeching, a meter away. Breathing hard, she jerked her head up, still trying to understand what had just happened. And so, cursing under her breath, she resumed her pace; quicker this time.
Funny how fragile our concentration seems to be. Almost as much as our lives.
And for the love of god,
feel your legs,
bite your lips.
Just don’t beg
to be gone instead.
Remember no men
is better of dead.
Grip life tight,
there is a light.
Take off your flight.
Such is the delight
of winning the fight.
Stay, pay attention.
State your intentions.
The sunset races against the clock once more, as the begining of winter cuts the days.
Aside from the chatting outside the window, the only sounds that seems to fill the thick air, still not cooled by the season, is the increasing blow of the wind, playing melodies with the wind chimes.
And the sky is on fire, shimmering tones of orange, red and yellow, burning pink fading into the upcoming dark blue night. The first stars glitter on the thin veil above.
It’s a nice evening to be alive.